delphinium migrant blue,
and into night
we follow,
toward the residue
of morning,
where there's no time
limit to grief.

you wake with
electric intervals,
something's wrong
with yesterday,
in your head are
galaxies like grains of salt,
and they fill up the sky.

these red metallic balloons,
that come to you
when you are ripped open,
whether it’s by pain
and heartache
or you’re falling in love,
these you can’t close
yourself off to.

but what you actually want
is to bypass them,
and try to reach that
dawn serenade,
which is floating
above them,
as if golden electric ribbons
which don’t
demand repayment.

The tulip has wilted in a hopelessly unfair...despair,
in a pink powder like weak fragility of partially disappeared shiny lipstick
dry, draggy and clumpy.
Many have been consumed and most have been lived through.
Kissed and drained.
Ornamented crowds have fleeted
and many have been lost
vanished and gone.
Wealth, health and glamour all expired with fleeing memories.
Shiny carnival glasses just hold worn out and deceased bodies leaving spirits aloof
skulls shall now smile inadvertently, not minding the sand running through the neck one hour after another
all the tulips, even the purple ones, have withered

Plucked random seed
From puppy paw

And discarded
Lightly

Tree of Life!
Tree of Life!

A part of nature

Hole in the sky

Black space

Cold-

Tired of rockets
And boots

Moon broke orbit

To the far side
Of Sun

I will take you to the slate.
Blaenau Ffestiniog,
Tanygrisiau,
Cwm Orthin lost and gone.
It lays all around, littered
sliding, sparkling with rain.

grey and ugly they say
but have they sat a while,
storage heaters and thrones,
they are, the slates
perfumed moss and earth.

we will wander up the rise
where mothers push the buggies,
and boys off road from Croesor
mud and slate chips, scattering
splattering.

we may pass the lake
where the sheep bathe
and we shall bathe too
pooled in water
slated, lilied, green

i shall walk you
to the fences, slate fences,
drawn with names
from the past, graffiti
men’s names, welsh names,
proud.

we shall sit by the chapel
listening for the voices
murmuring, singing
welsh voices,
and we will join in the song
with our hearts

let us visit the old homes,
scattered stone, and windows blind,
wind hunting hair to lift,
doors to rattle,
all gone, all gone
down to the valley,
and away.

time stands still
and i will watch you.
take photographs